A Video Explanation (of sorts)

We are back from our six day excursion to the Welsh coast; we have had a great time. I have had some great opportunities to relax, my son has made some new friends, and together we have had some fun too.

I know I have had a good chance to recharge, as I have been on auto-pilot since returning home. Car was decanted, washer was put on, oven warmed concurrently, hot water on for an auto-hour, child's dinner cooked, clean clothes hung, child's party clothes considered for tomorrow, garden checked, vegetable patch weeded and internet revisited.

All this was done with absolutely zero muttering or chuntering, our break ticked all the right boxes clearly.

And if you want it even clearer, have a look at the embedded video.

R and R and, err, R

Rest, relaxation, recuperation, recharging, respite and repose not words usually synonymous within the world of parenting.

Probably even less amongst my sole parenting brethren.

However I am a very blessed individual, and as well as getting regular short breaks, we have virtually a whole week of the above.

Now, while I can not completely switch off – parents of children all ages tell me not to expect to ever fully relax again – I am definitely in a different place.

Both figuratively and actually.

We are away with my folks, enjoying the Welsh coast, and their hospitality.

They have a static caravan that is right on the coast (I’m looking at the sun setting over this beautiful bay as I type). It is on a small site, with no amenities, thus quiet, but there are plenty of other children, so my son is very entertained even if we make little effort and stay put.

After a day of nothing much, walking into the village, casually guiding my son’s movements and exploits, making a sandwich, popping onto the beach, dissecting our find to see what we had discovered, I am unwound by at least a few turns.

Enough revolutions to have to check what day it is. This time out of genuinely not caring, rather than being as sharp as a centuries eroded beach pebble.

And I expect more of the same until the weekend, and our return home to the trudge of near idyllic hamlet life.

I hope to use a little of our time away to plan the final few weeks of my son’s nursery stint. As at the moment we regularly get free days, that are term time, I want to optimise their usage, as this will be our last regular chance to enjoy the peace, and price, of visits to various entertainment venues when most of their target audience are stuck at school.

It will probably be at times like these, early evening, when I can enjoy the scenery, also avoid the dross of when 7 to 8 million folks may as well get lobotomies prime-time television, and get more worthwhile pursuits, such as planning our ventures, done.

There are a few other things I should, or could, catch up with, but as it is only touch-and-go that I will sort out our outings schedule (thinking about it is progress), I would estimate the chance of any further work being done as slim.

Slim to none.

My Turn

From the moment my wife died, my son became the solid on which my life is based. An undiminished shining light in a suddenly darkened world.

He gave me focus, when I was unable to focus on anything else.

He gave me comfort and occupied me when I needed it most.

He gave me strength.

And so many more things, all rather unwittingly (I should cut him some slack, he was only seven months old).

In the immediate aftermath, still within the shock of having my whole world, and further plans within it, evaporate without a moments notice, Junior, by just being a being, one that could not comprehend what was going on, and therefore was uninfluenced by it, or changed his persona because of it, was a blessing.

An infinite one.

I did not shield him from the emotion that was going on around him, I wanted him to know I was accessible to him no matter what my state of mind. That seemed much more important, than worrying if bearing witness to the grieving process would do him any harm.

I was also mindful of ensuring that the practicality of who relied on whom, was still heavily weighted in his favour, as tradition expects. And by doing so, he inadvertently became a crutch for me, rather than that being his primary function.

At the beginning the nights were the most difficult times to deal with. The realisation that you are now on your own, practically reaffirmed by the lack of a person sharing a bed with you.

There is little else for the mind to focus on either, not that it would focus on a great deal in the day, but still.

Still, being a very poignant word.

For comfort I would take my boy to bed with me, my one conscious selfish act as a parent, to give me that little bit of comfort I needed to give me any realistic chance of getting some rest.

I do not remember how long that lasted for, a lot of that time is a blur, with details difficult to recall, not that I have a great desire to recall them anyway.

He went back into his cot, and I then slept in the same room, until eventually the previous status quo of each in our own rooms was re-established.

There have been occasions – plenty of them – when we have shared a bed since. Sometimes out of practicality, some out of care, when he’s been poorly, some as it helped the keeping the bed dry process, but not really any through grief.

But over the last few weeks my son has become increasingly aware of his loss, and has become more quizzical on the semantics, as he grapples to improve his level of understanding.

As he grieves.

It is tragically inspiring to listen and react to him, as he asks questions about his mom, how she died, how she is never coming back and how much he misses her.

He has a vastness about him, that I admire greatly, and expect to be dwarfed by as he gets older.

He plays out scenarios, talks about them, compares them to others, gets upset, gets consoled, but mostly amazes.

For all he has lost, it has given him a thirst for understanding and a choking ability to accept and appreciate. He has been cruelly forced to face his emotions, and been given a very early lesson in immortality that will hopefully bring benefits, as well as the obvious negatives, as he grows, both physically and spiritually.

Most of his difficulties seem to come at night. When he is nestling down after story time, then he can get a tad puzzled and distressed.

It is a huge thing to deal with, and I am very proud of how he does deal with it, and how I can play my part in that process.

And my part has been reassuring him, but not sugar-coating the realities, and on a couple of occasions taking him to my bed.

Giving him that little bit of extra comfort, so he can get the sleep he needs for tomorrow.

A tomorrow we shall share together, with smiles on our faces, and warmth in our broken hearts.

Muff Munching

Me and my big cake hole, or fingers.

What was intended as my humorous slant on all the wonderful recipes of the interweb, that - as a cooking simpleton - I skip over, ended up with me guilting myself into talking up, and taking up a challenge.

See I posted about my fairy cake protocol, an hilarious method statement for the sum total of the baking that we get up to here.

Except it was not so funny for some.

English Mum, a food writer no less, was appalled at my used of sachets. So much so she decided the blogging world needed an equal and opposite post, in the form of a step-by-step vanilla muffin guide.

Because I am an idiot I felt, writing the post, I should actually ditch the packs, and simply stock the standard ingredients for cakes, I suggested that I would bake said muffins, if English Mum would actually be so kind to put together the post.

Voilà

And wouldn't you know it, another fool reluctant baker, suggested we have a 'muffin-off'.

So we agreed to expose our muffins to the world wide web today, for judging by the foodie English Mum.


Here are most of the consumables and apparatus needed to make quality vanilla muffins.




For reference, here are my normal weapons of choice.



The dry ingredients - sifted.



All mixed together and chocolate chips added.



In the oven.

Out of the oven.

Decorated.

Done.

They did taste delicious, and I actually have five children and two other adults that would testify to that. 

I think I shall continue with baking from scratch, so it is a score on that front, although I shall probably drop the unnecessary items from this recipe, keep it simple.

Don't judge me, except you English Mum of course, you need to go and check out the delights of Laura's Muffins at Are We Nearly There Yet Mummy?

Now anyone else want to take up a baking challenge?

The world needs a reluctant bakers meme like no other.

Domestic Pfft

Here is a shocker.

I dislike domestic duties, enormously.

Even as a married man, I would shy away from certain household chores. I have never minded cooking, I have known all my dishwashers intimately and putting the bins out was only ever a little more than a minor annoyance.

Washing clothes became easy too, after a successful induction into that area, I mean, it does not really take a long time to load, and unload a washer. Irritating for sure, but palatable.

Ironing was not something I could do when I first moved out to live with Samantha. And my induction into that field was less than successful. Injuries, burnt clothes, fingers and even the ‘successful’ items looking like they had been folded at random, rather than flattened.

Eventually, and as we had a healthy income, that duty was subcontracted out.

Cleaning is something I would avoid to the best of my dodging ability, which I should mention, is immense.

I was not above begging, bribing and generally going AWOL when surfaces needed wiping, carpets vacuuming and toilets scrubbing.

Problem is now, I have no one to barter with.

My son is not frightened of many things, but the vacuum is one of them. He must have inherited my anti-cleaning genes.

As a young widower I am still surprised, by other peoples’ surprise at my level of domestication.

Not sure who people think is cooking for me, cleaning, washing and ironing my clothes. If anyone knows any domestic fairies, I am all ears – that is not true, whilst bigger than average, I do have all the other body parts actually.

Not giving the wrong impression, I am certainly not on top of everything at home, all of the time.

Generally the clothes wash-dry-iron-put-away cycle is always in operation, and that one does not slide too far.

Tidying is not too bad either, not as good, but fairly regular.

Cleaning is the one that causes me the most grief.

It is always a fight, one I have with myself, to stay on top of it. The minute something is spotless, it is dirty again.

I concentrate on the kitchen, and on the rare occasions I do get on top, my discipline of cleaning while I go does seem to get a little renewed impetus. But it does not last for long, at least, it does not seem to.

My latest approach has been to try and numb myself to the actual task at hand, and just allocate a period of time - at the moment in no more than 60 minute bursts - and just clean until that time elapses.

The reality is that cleaning is going to be my responsibility for some time, I do dream of a far away time where I allocate funds for a cleaner, but I would have to be earning significantly more than I do now, to be at peace with that.

Thus I need to be able to tolerate the cleaning, and also get it done to an acceptable standard, without imploding with inner rage.

I am comforting myself, with some previous experience, in a totally unrelated field.

Hopeful of a successful analogy.

In my youth, and into my twenties I played cricket. Not everyone will understand the game, but essentially it is all about the batting, the bowling and generally the fielding gets in the way.

As a youngster I used to dread fielding, as I knew my bowling time would be limited, based on ability and the rules that children can only be used sparingly.

So, I would often be looking at three hours of fielding, for a few minutes of something I enjoyed.

I would mutter to myself in the field, not try very hard, and often be caught on my heels when I should have prepared for the ball coming my way.

My catching and throwing acumen was always pretty good, I would be trusted with the catching positions, rather than being ‘hidden’ in the field. But I suppose, like many youngsters, I would frustrate my team mates and my captain.

And that eventually dawned on me, and as I was not about to give up the game, I decided that I should actually make more of an effort in the field, and try to actually enjoy it.

I would focus on the amount of time, or overs left to elapse, and stay motivated that way.

It really worked for me, and I think improved my all round game. And I know of a few occasions when the captain would go looking for someone to bowl, and as my effort had stood out above those muttering self-loathing sentiment, I would get the ball.

Now I am hoping that my form in the past, can be applied here too.

Not that I expect to ever be actually enjoying the cleaning, more to grow an appreciation of its role within contributing to a happy home.

Now, howzat for a parallel?

Disney's Bedtime Stories

Those lovely folks at Disney have recruited me, via the Think Parents network, to become a Blu-ray ambassador.

It basically breaks down to me getting some Disney Blu-ray discs and in return, I blog my honest opinion.

Good or bad.

Part of their push into embracing Blu-ray technology, and the hope that the masses will follow smartish, I believe.

I bought a HD ready television earlier this year, as I needed a new one for my lounge, and basically you can not really by a new television that is not HD ready.

I can actually remember when HD TVs came out, and as I was living close to the country’s largest Currys electrical store, went to check it out.

My best mate, very much a movie buff, was excited by the hype generated around this type of technology, and was repeating quotes like ‘biggest breakthrough since colour’ and ‘we’ll feel like we’re there, at the match, or even in the movie’.

We actually went together to Currys, making the best use of our toddlers’ naptime after we had been swimming first thing.

I can not imagine the salesmen’s eyes lit-up when we arrived, looking like drowned red-eyed rats, complete with mini-versions in pushchairs.

Hardly the look of cutting edge technology enthusiasts.

But nor were we impressed with them, or HD television.

Sure, the picture was better, and made it worth buying LCD or plasma in lieu of the previous technologies, but not breathtaking, and certainly not worth subscribing to the premium feeds of only a few channels here in the UK.

That thinking has not really changed. When that medium is available for free, or at the cost of the standard feed services I am sure I will get hooked up, but until then, I am still not really interested, and I also feel if I am not alone, that getting it for free may come sooner rather than later.

The same is true with the Blu-ray technology. Having to buy a new player is probably palatable, but then to pay a premium for the same movies or titles, is just too big a price for me to pay.

And probably the majority of the British public.

However, I decided to answer the Disney call, and give their Blu-ray offerings my two penneth.

Bedtime Stories is the first priority movie I have been sent, and I have to say I have mixed feelings about it.



The Blu-ray quality is fantastic, much better than ‘normal’ feed movies, and it seems, easier on the eye. I mean incredibly vivid colours, but they do not seem to burn, or hurt, your spherical viewing muscles.

I am still firmly in the camp of not paying the premium, but I do appreciate its superiority.

The movie itself got off to a fantastic start, the premise of a father raising his children alone, had me at hello.

Add to that the actual actor playing this father, and narrator of the film, is Jonathan Pryce. I man-love him. I saw him in My Fair Lady, opposite Martine McCutcheon, he was brilliant. I man-love him.

The movies’ main star is the hapless-loveable-fool-playing-win-in-a-twist-monkey Adam Sandler. He plays a hapless-loveable-fool-playing-win-in-a-twist-monkey.

Typecast is one word, who knew? Not me or Sandler it appears.

His character is Pryce’s son, trying to keep his dad’s dream alive of eventually running the hotel that he had to sell, as his concentration on being a fabulous father meant his hotel’s financial situation was neglected.

Did I mention; I man-love him?

Russell Brand effortlessly plays one of Sandler’s sidekicks.

The lovely Courtney Cox plays his sister, and the enemy takes the form of Guy Pearce, who thanks to the excellence of Blu-ray technology looks more Mike from Neighbours, than a chiselled jawed Hollywood superstar, thanks Blu-ray.

There are two adorable kids in the film, and a slightly less adorable hamster, that has huge eyes and a late flourishing love of junk food.

The basis of the film, bedtime stories, that in part become true, is a very sweet one.

I enjoyed that, especially as I like reading stories to my own son, and I also like making up stories with him once I turn the lights out, Junior enjoys ‘made-up’ stories too.

Although quite predictable, there were a few sugary moments that had me filling up a little, and some of the music is good too.

The film is probably a tad beyond my son, at four, but I will probably watch it with him, just to gauge his reaction, and to also show him that there are other daddy’s doing what I do, even if this one is a Disney depiction.

I would pick up the film on a few points, and probably the most important one, without spoiling it; is that the kids put themselves into a ridiculous amount of danger, and it gets brushed off in the ‘magic’ of the movie.

I do not suppose it would be very Disney if the kids got a serious lecture about that towards the climax of the film.

Good job I do not direct their films, I will just stick to Blu-ray ambassadoring them.

And The Winner is..............

The winner of my Nintendo Wii competition has been drawn, or more so selected by throwing coins on to a piece of paper with names on, and *drum roll* the winner is............


Coding Mamma (Tasha)


Congratulations Tasha.

If you want to see the draw, go here (Ignore the mumbling & the mess).

And thank you to all that took the time to enter.

I Don't Want To

One aspect of parenting I have applied myself most to, or given special attention, is that of my son’s social integration, and acceptance.

I accept that an overbearing parent, pushing others into corners to accept their kids into their own social control, is not the right way to go, and I do not believe I have tried to do that. But I have certainly acknowledged its importance, and perhaps weighted its significance higher than other things.

With the lack of siblings, and none on the immediate horizon, I have always though it was important to involve other children in our lives, particularly Max’s, as much as possible.

Not only is it nice to have friends, and to start developing social skills from the earliest possible outset, but I believe by having peers around it helps an only-child discover that things do not always go their way, and that others’ claims, and needs, are just as valid as theirs.

Success in this area has been rewarding on so many levels. For me, the gift of time when he is off playing, eating with or just out with others. It is also nice to feel the acceptance when others trust me with the care of their offspring.

I dig acceptance.

Plus I get to muck around with a multiple of children rather than just one; it certainly makes trampolining more of a challenge.

For Junior he is developing relationships, it can make the mundane more interesting and he gets to experience new and different things.

Some he will like, some he won’t, but experience all the same.

We have had a fair percentage of the kids from nursery back at home, and I think in all cases that has been reciprocated.

We join others on days out, Max sometimes going off without me.

And whilst not being pushy, I am keen on doing such things. If a parent expresses an interest in getting our children together, I, more often than not, push that past the vague, and into the diary.

Trying to maintain balance, and not to exclude anyone else on any particular grounds of unsuitability. I certainly like to think I give everyone a chance, even if they been unruly with others, braking lamp shades or wills to live etc.

That is up until now.

Max has always seemed very sociable, happy to mix and play with anyone, a penchant for playing with other lads, but not to the total exclusion of the girlies. Needs must, and all that.

Because of this, whenever I have asked in the past if he wants to go to such-and-such’s, or provide entertainment for them, he has always replied in the affirmative, often before I have finished the question.

For that reason I have not been afraid to ask him in front of others, or others’ parents.

But these last couple of weeks one of his nursery chums has asked for his company on a couple of occasions. My son has been round to his before, and this lad to has been to our place on more than one occasion too.

However instead of initiating the normal jump-at-the-chance protocol, he has steadfastly refused to accept these kind requests.

When asked he has explained that he does not want to go, and the most detail I could get was that ‘he doesn’t play nice.’

Clarity unbound.

I must admit, that when they have been here they have not played brilliantly, spending quite a lot of time playing separately, which defeats the object.

But I am, dangerously assuming, that this will only get better if they spend more time together.

So I am still keen for them to play together, as is this other lad’s parents.

At the moment we would not actually have been physically able to make these meets happen in any case, but I fear the impending time when we can, and Junior turns his nose up at the opportunity in public.

I have been thinking of pre-empting and averting such a social disaster, by actually inviting this kid out, or to our residence.

The counsel of my parenting inner-sanctum has been sought, and seems to be a situation all too familiar to them, and one I just have to suck up, handling the truth as delicately as possible.

Their argument is that my son will only make things worse if he goes against his will, which would ultimately make everyone feel worse.

Genius, yet it does not make this any easier.



My fantastic Nintendo Wii competition closes tomorrow night (Friday) so there is still time for you to get entered. Either by registering with Ciao.co.uk or by back-linking to the competition blog post (include a link to the competition post on your blog or website)

Mommy Blogging, With Balls.

The bosom of the mommy blogging network, while being wondrous, has also been a lovely place for me to nestle.

At its best it is all warm and cosy, and if it could grow arms, they would have been thrown around me to pull me even closer – not that I need the encouragement, boobies have a magical pull all of their own.

But, for me, it has certainly felt that way. Very welcoming.

Just as in real life it has been nice to be accepted by mothers via an online means, here, and from foreign climes.

I am a very proud member of the British Mummy Bloggers community, have spoken to Alpha Mummy about the rise of British mommy blogging, and have been invited to join in on a few memes originated for moms.

However I am most definitely not a mother, by the clinical biological definition, not the last time I checked anyway.

The dangly bits are a dead giveaway - except in very cold weather - and I do sometimes leave the house without a bag, can you imagine?

I can not be a woman, and therefore, nor a mother.

This is confirmed according to the Oxford English dictionary;

Mother:
• noun 1 a female parent. 2 (Mother) (especially as a title or form of address) the head of a female religious community. 3 informal an extreme or very large example of: the mother of all traffic jams.

• verb look after kindly and protectively, sometimes excessively so.

As a noun I have no chance, except with the third part of the definition. I have been described as the mother of all sorts of horrible things.

But if we are looking at using mother as a verb, then that definition very much applies to myself. Except, I hope, the second part of the definition, which really is incorrect and should only apply to the word with an added ‘S’ at the start.

Interestingly, the exact opposite is true with the definition of father;

Father:
• noun 1 a male parent. 2 an important figure in the origin and early history of something: Pasteur, the father of microbiology. 3literary a male ancestor. 4 (often as a title or form of address) a priest. 5 (the Father) (in Christian belief) the first person of the Trinity; God.

• verb be the father of.

I mean, I am a father, a male parent, but to simply ‘be the father of’ does not really go anywhere near an explanation of my relationship, and responsibilities I have, with my son.

It probably does all fathers an injustice, well, all the good ones in any case.

But this is not, or meant to be, a definition rant, it is more a thank you post.

My situation, and the way I have chosen to parent, lends me a few benefits. One is that I feel I can relate to all sorts of situations.

I relate to both mothers and fathers, in many different situations. Those in split families, those in picture perfect situations, two incomes, one income families, single parents, those widowed of course, and even same sex relationships.

And while I can relate, I also appreciate the respect, and my acceptance by any of these people, in any of these situations, and any I have failed to remember.

So to all those wonderful parents, that I mother amongst, thank you, and bless your bosoms.

Every last one of them.

We Lost The Nursery's Mascot

We have been the latest custodians of the nursery's shiny new cuddly toy.

Horatio The Hedgehog gets to spend time with each of the nursery's attendees, and recounting his experiences, and tales with photographic proof, falls into the remit of parenting.

We were going great guns, pictures were taken of the spiky fellow's experience, and I had over produced a page for the diary he comes home with.

Then this happened.

They should have provided facilities for a video diary.

My Fairy Cake Protocol

I read a few - and see a lot - of recipes on ye olde tinterweb.

Cooking is something I enjoy, however, washing up is something I endure.

Add to that I am often cooking for just two, one of which has a tendency to turn his squidgy little nose up at things that do not resemble something he has consumed previously.

That is not to say, or type, that we do not try new things, but I tend to only stretch my culinary skills when we have more numbers to share those delights with.

However back to blog point, and post.

I thought I would add to the masses, and add my own ingenious instructions of how to bake.

So here is baking fairy cakes, the lazy way;

Ingredients/Apparatus/Skills

- One child, or I have actually been known to entertain two with this process. But I think if your adult to child ratio exceeds 1:2 the Health and Safety Executive requires you to apply for a permit.

- One overpriced box, containing sachets of flour, icing sugar, fairy cake cases, and – for optimum effect – décor embossed with someone, or something, so important that they require a royalty.

- Extra icing sugar, for when you realise the above ensemble has too little in, or that you do not have an encyclopedic type knowledge of spoon sizes and as such your initial icing efforts are a tad runny.

- One egg, and one measuring jug of water to check the freshness of such egg. If it sinks, it’s safe.

- Two mixing bowls, or the will to wash the first one as soon as it has been used to mix the cake mixture and egg together.

- Aprons, matching if preferred.

- Whisk, electric - if saving time in the mixing process is your bag.

- An oven (pre-heated to several degrees wotsit)

- A baking tray.

- Oven gloves (marginally more important than everything else on this list).

- Cooling tray, or something that can perform the same function as a cooling tray. I.E. Something that items will cool down on I.E. Any flat surface.

- The will to repeat the words ‘careful’, ‘stop licking that’ and ‘no they are not ready yet’, a lot.

- A cleaner, or at least double as much time on your hands that you have used to actually make these lovely things.

- And one person who looks like it takes every inch of his concentration to stop dribbling (see picture).

Executive Summary of easy cake making protocol

Full instructions will be available on the one size fits all box, so I will just summarise.

- Get all the ingredients into the bowl – keeping child, or children, out of the bowl.

- Spoon produce or arduous stirring/whisking unequally into the cases, this will ensure plenty of love filled arguments over who gets to eat the bigger cakes.

- Cook. Checking every time you hear the words ‘are they ready yet’ if only to steal yourself a few seconds of distraction, delaying the next time you will hear them.

- Mix icing – badly – while items cook/cool, remember items should be cooled on a specialist cooling device.

- Allow children to decorate cakes as they see fit, and question, at the end, if they can see at all.

- Finally, do not expect any yourself, unless you count ‘any’ as strays with the icing licked off, only disregarded once the children are full.


So basically, it could not be easier, and certainly any less fulfilling, if not actually filling - for the adults.

I owe a lot of this ‘skill’ to my home economics teaching mother, who, as you may have worked out, obviously threw me out of her classes for swearing and generally being a nuisance.

Thank you, and I am sure Green's Cakes would also like to say the same.

My competition to win a brand new Nintendo Wii, worth, I don't know, loads, has been extended, and still offers UK residents, a great opportunity to win. Enter here. And if you are having trouble, or have great reluctanct to sign up with Ciao.co.uk, then just link to the post on your own blog, that counts as an entry too.

Horatio (not Nelson) in the House

My son’s nursery has a renewed zing. Which is great, as I thought it was starting to lose some of its impetus around Christmas.

The reason for both of these things was a change in leadership.

The old manager has departed for pastures new, and been replaced by her understudy, in a full-time, full-jurisdiction, capacity.

It has been a bit strained since the New Year, as both these people knew what was happening. But as the nursery comes under some remit of the school they expect the same of its staff, as they do of their teachers.

Which means that they can only normally depart at the end of terms, and they have to give reasonable notice.

A practice usually put in place to give schools time to find replacement teachers, so not to leave them bereft, yet in this case, it actually caused a few issues, as the replacement was obviously itching to get stuck in, and apply her stamp on the place and its practices.

While the former was somewhat coasting to an exit, but still able to flex her authoritah at any given moment, or over any particular issue.

Thus, the occasional spiky moment.

But it is all good, and the standards were still tip top, even if the trending – for a short while – was not upward.

The new, or renewed initiatives, as a collective, are great.

Overall they are attempting to make the kids transition to school, a much easier one, particularly relevant for us, as Max starts at the school in September.

And, boy, has that come round quickly.

They have their own hooks in the corridor, as they will have at school, they are being introduced to the school’s phonics programme, handwriting style, recognition, and writing of their own names.

Simple social and personal skills are being rehearsed, like taking their shoes and clothes on and off, going to the toilet on their own, and knowing how to address one another, and the teacher.

One of the thing they used to do, sending a nursery pet, which is really a stuffed toy, home, on a rota basis, has returned on a more formal arrangement.

Horatio the Hedgehog has been created.

He has his own log, of who had him and when. Which has issued and to-be-returned dates, not dissimilar to that of a library book.

Parents are emotionally blackmailed ‘welcome’ to include a story of what Horatio gets up to, and accompanying pictures would be appreciated.

The first two parents to look after the prickly little thing have set a very bad tone. They have both word processed documents of their hedgehog included escapades, including pictures – yes that is correctly a plural – and all done in time to send the journal back updated by their particular return date.

The inconsiderate barstewards.

My son pleaded with the nursery staff for Horatio over an extended weekend, justifying his case by saying he has no one to cuddle at night.

The lying little charmer.

But as they fell for it, we are with hog for a few days, four nights I think.

So, to rain all over his argument a little, I amassed all the soft toys I could find, laid them, and my child out on his bed, and took the shot for Horatio’s diary.

I shall be using the words ‘vast array’ within my word processed account of what Horatio got up to.

Max also told the nursery staff that he likes crumpets, and we NEVER, EVER, have them.

Refer above.

Thus, currently, in our kitchen, are a couple of crumpets defrosting. They will be ready for tomorrow’s breakfast, and obviously another shot for this damn journal.

Give me a personalised coat hook, over Horatio, any time.



My competition to win a brand new Nintendo Wii, worth, I don't know, loads, has been extended, and still offers UK residents, a great opportunity to win. Enter here.

The Opposite of Blogging Block

I am teetering towards being a little overwhelmed with blog material. Some of which is going to be difficult to write, however worthwhile. My son is becoming more aware of our circumstances, and asking more questions all the time. It is great that he can, and that he is comfortable asking, but it does take quite a bit out of me to provide reasoned and appropriate responses. So I am struggling to build up enough steam to write about these moments.

There has also been a bit going on that I have not kept on top of. Getting official acceptance into the school, and the swift realisation that our lives, and some around us, are due to change in the all too soon. And I do not beleive I even blogged about his nursery review wotsit, nor the reports on getting more men into primary child care.

And I am sure that blogging about a lady who discovered I was a widower, by asking me if my wife had suggested I get a vaesectomy, would go down reasonably well too.

Plus I have a tonne of topics scribbled somewhere amongst my well maintained blogging notes.

However I was tagged by AModernMother recently, and by Yummy Mammy, but the laters was a meme thing for mommies, and while I enjoy the sentiment, I am not a mother (That's a post, all of its own btw).

And thought this might be a welcome relief, rather than the usual pain in the bottom, so I have chosen to partake, albeit half-heartedly (I won't be tagging anyone else).

Thus, questions to answer about oneself, are as follows;


1. What are your current obsessions?

The Inbetweeners and Twitter

2. Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?

My crown jewel pants (knickers).

3. What's for dinner?

Take away for me, my sister is buying. Sausage and mash for Max.

4. Last thing you bought?

An aluminium stag’s head.

5. What are you listening to?

Chart stuff, loads of RnB for some reason. Tinchy Stryder is hilarious.

6. If you were a god/goddess who would you be?

Socrates – Love him when he played for Brazil in the 1986 World Cup.

7. Favourite holiday spots?

North Wales (Most visited)
Barcelona, San Diego, Rome, Sicily, Sardinia.

8. Reading right now?

Question number 8.

9. Four words to describe yourself.

Calm, Tall, Smiley, Lackadaisical.

10. Guilty pleasure?

Swizzles Matlow.

11. Who or what makes you laugh until you’re weak?

The Inbetweeners. I have to have my inhaler nearby if I am watching stuff like this.

12. Favourite spring thing to do?

This year, planting potato tubers with my boy.

13. Planning to travel to next?

North Wales (see 7).

14. Best thing you ate or drank lately?

Had a cracking piece of cow at the village pub, part of my birthday shenanigans.

15. When did you last get tipsy?

Two Saturdays back. Went with a bus load of chums to watch a football match, had a good few drinks either side of said match.

16. Favourite ever film?

So many, but probably Star Wars Episode IV A New Hope.

17. Care to share some wisdom?

Yes.

18. Song you have most enjoyed this year?

For Winter, by Daniel Merriweather. I really like this one, and was a great listen when it was cold and drab outside earlier this year, sadly I don’t think it will make his album, if indeed, that ever comes out.

19. How is it possible to encourage a gaggle of women to chase after you, without being Brad Pitt?

Continue your brisk walk out of the supermarket even when the security alarms go off.

The rules were I got 18 questions, I had to change one, and add a question in, passing the meme onto eight others.

And as I am such a rebel........................

Either that or just following another rebel's lead.

Mind Reader?

My late wife, who rather ironically was a real stickler for time keeping, would often say that my ability to read her mind added significant benefit to the smooth running of our marriage.

She would put it differently, but the above is technically accurate.

However, I was less of a mind reader, just more appreciative of the fact that women really do think it is their prerogative to change their mind, or in other words, mine specifically, female genitals grant you carte blanche to renege on any decision, or commitment you happen to have made previously, and any fault or blame apportionment will lie elsewhere.

Therefore granted with this appreciation, and vast understanding, I appeared to be Jedi like in my reaction to a change of plan, it is as if I could see it coming.

What? A woman, changed her mind? No. And I guessed that would happen?

Never.

Mind reader is the only reasonable explanation.

Over the last four years I have also learnt that toddlers, or perhaps even children as a grander genre, reserve the right to absolve themselves of any decision accountability.

Twice in the last 24 hours, at the current count, can I cite major examples, and very funny they are too.

I learnt to love the way the Samantha would charmingly make swift changes of plan and mind, and give me the face that said ‘you-know-you’re-going-to-sort-it’.

Bearing witness to that tender look, plus teasing her about it were ample pay back. And the fact that we could both laugh about it together, rather than get angry with one another, summed up our general attitude to each other, and to life.

Max and I have gone the same way. We have developed an understanding, where he is genuinely aware of what he is doing, and that I find it amusing, albeit at times I have to assert a parenting mantra to make him understand that decisions do have consequences.

This week was not one for that.

Yesterday, Thursday, there is a parent and toddler swim session at a local baths that starts not long after nursery finishes. I would say we attend this session two out of three weeks.

I always ask Max in the morning if he wants to go, as it is a bit of a rush from nursery to home, and out again, especially if he plays for a bit in the playground with his nursery chums.

I got a firm no when I posed the question this week, and I double checked on the way to nursery, checking again at nursery, even getting his answer witnessed by two of the nursery’s staff.

They even suggested they would call me if he changed his mind, which was jolly nice of them.

The call never came, so I did not put our swim bag together, nor drive round the corner to save a few vital minutes to enable an on-time arrival at the pool.

I more-so looked forward to a little messing about on the school ground, maybe down at the park, followed by some father-and-son time at home before dinner.

As we got set to leave nursery for the week, the staff wished my son a nice weekend, and a nice swim, before correcting themselves to say he was not going for a dip today. He concurred and said goodbye.

Then as we got down the three steps to the playground, he turned to me and said, yes you guessed it;

“So………are we going swimming then?”

I had to giggle.

And then explained that we could, but we would have to get a move on, and we might not make it to the full session.

He was a little miffed at this, as he was going to have to sacrifice playing for a little longer, with the folks he had just spent the whole day amongst.

Swimming was still a green for go, and we ended up only being a little late, and had a great time.

Jumping on daddy from the side was a particular joy this week. For one of us, at least.

Then tonight, Friday, the usual day of pizza for him, as it was for his mother, we had guests. My folks dropped in on their way home from Wales, and I offered to include them in our dinner plans, without actually checking our food stocks.

I had to resort to freezer stuff, and without enough of any one thing in particular, I came up with the fabulously nutritional cocktail of fish fingers, onion rings, dinosaur shapes, scampi, beans and oven chips.

And as there were going to be so many giants of toddler desire on display, I suggested Max might want to choose from this lot, in lieu of his usual pizza.

He concurred, and absolutely did not want pizza.

I cooked one anyway, thinking, or predicting he may actually change his mind, and that it would not go to waste, only our waistlines, if he did not.

Predictably, and right before I was about to dump the pre-ordered turkey filled T-Rex on his plate, he decided he actually wanted pizza.

“What? You mean the pizza I haven’t cooked?”

And then it came, the look.

The knowing look of his mother, his saying 'quit-your-bravado-dad, you-know-you-have-it-covered'.

Mind reader?

I think not.

Just well matched.